


The Very Thing

by ClaraxBarton



Series: Slow Show [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, M/M, all of the angst actually, and i bought the lot, as if there was a sale, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: A short, angsty 2x3 post-canon drabble for Kangofu-CB.





	The Very Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



A/N: An angsty as fuck drabble for Kangofu-CB.

A/N2: Unbeta’d

A/N3: Title from a song by Stars

Warnings: ANGST, language

Pairing: 2x3

 

_ The Very Thing _

 

Duo stared at the phone.

He could call. He should-

He should  _ not  _ call. He should absolutely  _ not  _ call.

Duo pulled up his contacts.

He would regret it. He  _ already  _ regretted it.

Duo dialed.

Three rings and twenty agonizing seconds later, the call was answered.

“Duo?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi.”

For some reason, hearing his name practically growled into the phone just reinforced Duo’s sense of isolation and the completely fucked up  _ everything  _ of his life.

“What’s wrong?”

Matter of fact, immediately getting down to the point, drilling down to that terrifying void that felt like it was consuming Duo.

“I-”

He shouldn’t have called.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s fine. I’m fine. Sorry I woke you.”

“Duo-”

“Yeah. Just- sorry. Goodnight. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow or something.”

He hung up without waiting for a response.

He felt nauseous, his stomach a roiling, twisting mess of anxiety and self-loathing.

He was so fucking stupid. So weak. So  _ dumb _ .

He tossed the phone across the room, the heavy thud of it crashing into the wall just reinforcing how fucking  _ stupid  _ he was.

He was stupid and he was alone and that’s how it was. That’s how it always fucking was and frankly, that was fine. It was.

When he got people involved- that’s when shit got fucked. That’s when  _ he  _ got fucked. When  _ they  _ got fucked. When they left him.

Duo made himself take a shower, made himself strip out of the clothes he had spent the last thirty six hours in, had traveled from L3 to the moon and finally to Preventers HQ in and sat in Une’s office and delivered his mission report in and he wanted to burn them. Wanted to cut them into fucking shreds and destroy all trace of what he had just been through and-

And he stared at the pile on the floor in his bathroom and felt  _ no  _ motivation to even keep breathing, let alone put the effort into more destruction.

Destruction. It was all he was good for, and he couldn’t even bring himself to do  _ that _ .

Duo turned on the shower, cranked the temperature over to boiling, and stared at the flow of water.

Fuck.

Fuck this. Fuck everything.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just staring at the water, unable to convince himself to step into the shower.

Unable to move.

Insistent, echoing pounding on his front door drew Duo out of his mindless staring.

He waited for it to stop, waited for whoever - and who the fuck would it even be?- to leave.

It didn’t stop.

Duo wasn’t all that confident in the structural integrity of his door, and whoever the fuck was out there didn’t seem inclined to care all that much.

He reached for the pants he had shed but as soon as his fingers touched the trousers he dropped them.

No.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Duo grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist before walking out of the bathroom and into the living room.

He kept a gun behind a row of books on the top shelf of one bookcase, and he was relieved and mildly proud of himself for having the sense to grab it before heading to the door.

Duo looked through the peephole, recoiling as a fist pounded against the door again.

Well, shit.

He opened the door.

Trowa was mid knock, fit poised to strike again, and he stared at Duo in surprise. As if he hadn’t expected the door to ever open. Or for Duo to be on the other side.

“What are you doing here?”

“You sounded- you called me.”

They stared at each other, silence stretching taut. A tightrope between them that neither had ever been able to balance.

“I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry. I know it’s not- we’re not- I shouldn’t have called.”

“I want you to call me.”

Duo snorted in disbelief.

“No you don’t. Not for shit like this.”

“What happened?”

Duo belatedly realized that standing here, in his doorway, practically naked and with neighbors just a few feet away, was not where he should have this conversation.

He sighed and gestured.

“You wanna come in?”

“Do you want me to?”

Duo snorted.

“I mean you’re here, not like it matters much.”

“It matters, Duo.”

He had to look away, from the intense gaze, from the eyes that had seen too much and knew too much.

He stepped to the side, the physical motion as much of an acknowledgement as he could muster.

Trowa walked into the apartment, toeing off his shoes without having to be told.

_ That  _ had only taken Duo snarking at him a half-dozen times.

Duo closed and locked the door.

He leaned back against it and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling as if he clinging to his own skin was the only way to stay  _ in  _ it.

“Were you taking a shower?”

Duo was completely dry. He frowned.

And then realized the water was still running.

“Fuck.”

He stalked to the bathroom, angry and humiliated and  _ why the fuck _ was Trowa here?

He yanked at the faucet knobs, scraping his knuckles in the process, and he swore.

“Duo.”

Trowa was there, standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space and Duo felt trapped.

Felt as if the entire fucking world was crumpling around him and there was Trowa.

Holding out a hand.

Duo frowned.

“What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Duo looked down. He was. Knuckles scraped, skin peeled and red welling up.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I know.”

Duo’s tongue felt thick, his throat raw, his eyes painfully prickly.

Trowa’ hand lingered, balanced between them. Adrift.

Duo lifted his own, settled it into the warm, firm grip and let Trowa lead him from the bathroom.

He knew where the first aid kit was. Had, in fact, had to use it the very first time he had visited Duo at his apartment.

Drunken bar fights would do that, though. Lead to bad ideas like bandaids instead of stitches and whiskey fueled sex instead of sobering up alone.

Trowa cleaned his knuckles, smeared antibiotic cream over them, and then released Duo’s hand.

He desperately wanted to feel Trowa’s skin against his own again.

Wanted it so much that he  _ needed _ it. Like oxygen or gravity or-

Fuck gravity.

Duo hated gravity. Hated the weight constantly pushing at him, pulling at him, squashing him. Trapping him.

What he wouldn’t give for zero-g right now. Right this fucking second and for all of eternity.

“Talk to me.”

But the words, the invitation - the command? - filled Duo with dread.

If he opened his mouth, if he said even  _ one  _ thing he would say  _ everything  _ and he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

 

Duo shook his head, once, twice, continued to shake it because he could  _ feel _ the words clawing at him, could  _ see _ everything and  _ feel _ everything again and it -

 

Trowa pulled him close, wrapped his arms around Duo’s back and tucked his chin over Trowa’s head, just barely able to.

 

Duo sucked in a breath, heard and  _ felt _ just how wet it was, just how close he was to  _ losing _ it and -

 

“I’m here. I’m here for you, Duo. I’m here  _ with _ you.”

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

That was too much. This was too much.

 

Trowa’s solid warmth. The steady drum of his heart. The faint smell of lemon. The tickle of his hair against Duo’s cheek.

 

_ Fuck _ but Duo needed it.

 

He let his fingers curl into Trowa’s back, let himself feel everything and  _ nothing _ and he just stood there.

 

With Trowa.

 

And he remembered how to breathe.

 


End file.
